by Julia Gray
‘I entrusted to her a certain undertaking,’ says Mamma. ‘She writes to let me know that she is doing all she can.’
Almost as cryptic as my dream of my father. ‘That sounds intriguing,’ I say.
Mamma elucidates: ‘She is giving great consideration to the matter of a suitable husband.’
‘For Martha?’ I ask, referring to one of Mrs Somerville’s daughters, but knowing that this is most probably not the case.
‘No, you little goose!’ Mamma smiles at me. ‘For you.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Of course.’
Something heavy lodges itself in my chest, like a cherry stone trapped between the tines of a fork. We have been so busy travelling from place to place, viewing cotton mills one day and ribbon factories the next, staying in hotels and with friends, that I had more or less forgotten something that Mamma would never forget: that I am supposed, eventually, to find a husband.
It pains me to think that Mary Somerville, the most learned woman of my acquaintance, should be giving so much thought to my matrimonial prospects; I would much rather that we talked of geology and astronomy than marriage. Besides, the whole affair seems to me to be quite futile. No one is suitable enough for my mother. Either they are like Mr Knight, falling into the despised category of Renowned Fortune Hunter, or else they might be respectable enough in terms of character, but devoid of title. Or else they have a title, but not the right kind of title; or else they have the right kind of title but not enough money... Another type of man might on paper be quite perfect – but he is always the sort who is demonstrably disinterested in me, whether because of those rumours from a year ago, or else for some other reason entirely.
And sometimes there is nothing wrong with them at all – they seem in possession of all the required attributes – but Mamma simply decides, with all the single-mindedness of an obstinate child, that she doesn’t like them.
It really does seem a hopeless business, and I tell Mamma as much.
‘What, then, will you do with yourself, if you do not marry?’ she says.
I pause, wondering what to say. Lately, I have been thinking rather a lot about what is possible if you are a young woman. My work with Mary Somerville – of whom there is an actual bust on display at the Royal Society, although it is a place that she is not allowed to enter, because she is a woman – sparked a certain amount of this thinking. Girls are simply not educated in the same way as boys; yes, we have tutors, or governesses – or we might, if we have parents who encourage such things, and have the means to secure them – but we do not go to school as boys do. We cannot go to university.
This has been weighing on my mind ever since my presentation at Court; if I were a boy (hard to imagine, but one can try), I would probably be thinking of going to university now, rather than hovering at the edges of dances and waiting to meet my husband. Without doubt, I would choose Trinity College, Cambridge – a place I’ve never seen, and so I can only imagine a palace-like configuration of turrets and pillars and walkways and courtyards. Trinity was where my father went, and where Mr Babbage went too. Mary Somerville and I have talked about it often – how Babbage made the acquaintance there of William Whewell and John Herschel, with whom he still corresponds most fruitfully today. What an extraordinary place it must be, with so many minds meeting, so many books to be read, so many ideas to be exchanged over a hearty breakfast... It was at Cambridge, I know, that Babbage decided that the old system of mathematical notation needed to be abandoned in favour of the newer, and more useful, continental method. I often think: if only Mary Somerville had been able to attend such an institution, rather than rely on the goodwill of her husband to permit her to study, what wonders that lady would have achieved!
Even Mamma, I realise, who has an excellent brain, would have done well there. I admire her educational establishments a good deal, and sometimes I do not give her enough credit for her own forward thinking. She is capable of it.
‘If I could,’ I say, ‘I would go to university. I know that I cannot’ – I go on hastily, for Mamma has opened her mouth to protest at the absurdity – ‘but it does seem unfair, all the same.’
She does not protest, merely smiling at the edges of her mouth. ‘Yes, Ada. I do perceive that it seems unfair.’
Still wanting to answer her question – as much for me, indeed, as for her – I think on, worrying a brioche into a puddle of crumbs as I do so. I could propose to become a governess; or a traveller, perhaps, like Mariana Starke, whose guide-book we used for our Grand Tour. I could be a harpist – although that might be a rather hubristic thought, at this early stage in my musical career...
Then there’s my old ambition to become a writer. I haven’t written many verses lately, or any stories either, but that isn’t to say that I couldn’t write if I wanted to... I always thought that I gave up on that particular dream too quickly. My father wrote; a little part of me constantly wonders whether I should do the same. But then again, there are aspects of myself that I know I have inherited from Mamma, such as my aptitude for mathematics. I do like mathematics so much; perhaps, if one were to combine it with writing in some way...
‘I could write books,’ I say, ‘like Mrs Somerville.’
‘You haven’t the patience,’ says Mamma flatly.
‘I am learning patience!’ I say, feeling wounded. She has no idea of the patience required when trying to address the mathematical knots that two young children can tie themselves into.
‘What would you write about? Little romances, perhaps, such as you used to compose?’
I don’t like her tone as she says this, although I don’t know if she means to be unkind. I am remembering my dream again. You are all kinds of things... There is more than one kind of poetical...
It all comes together with the beauty of two magnets of opposite poles slotting into place. For so long, I have thought about writing; from early attempts at my own little verses with Miss Lamont, to stories with Miss Stamp and the fervent rereading of Lord Byron’s poems... then, later, the realisation, thanks to James Hopkins’ tutelage, that writing is not only about beautiful words and the pictures those words can paint, but, as he said, about the communication of ideas. Now it transfixes me (the idea coming upon me like a whirlwind of light and harmonious sound): I must write about ideas – scientific ideas! In journals, most likely, or... or even in books... It would need a special name, this kind of writing: something to capture the essence of such a craft.
A moment later, I think of it.
‘Poetical science,’ I say.
‘Ada, there is no such term.’
‘But there could be!’ My whole body is alert now; my hand shakes as I move my glass of milk away, lest I knock it over with my gestures. ‘Mamma, I must explain... I mean... it’s like... spiders’ webs and rainbows.’
She is looking at me now with concern.
‘I mean the transference of one idea to another,’ I say. ‘I mean connecting two different ideas in the way that a spider might spin thread across a garden... I mean the way that a rainbow looks quite different to the human eye – which I believe to be at the centre of its entire circle – to how it would appear elsewhere...’
‘Lower your voice, Ada, please. People are staring.’
She is right: my voice has risen, out of my control, and at least two neighbouring tables have paused their own conversations to look over at Lady Noel Byron and her daughter. I stop, and force myself to drink some milk, just for the normalcy of the action.
‘I’m sorry, Mamma,’ I say, expecting the conversation to end there. Privately, I resolve to continue the discussion of poetical science with Mary Somerville. I am sure that she will understand, even if Mamma does not.
Then Mamma says something entirely unexpected. ‘You ought not to set too much store by writing books,’ she says.
‘Why... what do you mean?’
�
��I wrote to Mr Murray, your father’s publisher – oh, a long time ago, now – and gave him very specific instructions that on no account was he ever to publish anything written by you.’
This is a shock – and also not a shock – because here, as I have always known, is a woman who must be in control of everything. But even so, I am stupefied. ‘Mamma,’ I say, struggling to keep my temper, ‘why ever shouldn’t Mr Murray publish my books?’
‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ she says inscrutably.
We are interrupted then by a waiter who comes with assiduous grace to clear our plates, and I bury the feeling that has risen unceremoniously in my throat – the hot, hasty, agonised-anger feeling that I so often associate these days with exchanges with Mamma. Our conversation passes to other matters, such as what each of us proposes to do this morning, but this latest revelation – proof, if ever proof were required, of her controlling, calculating nature – is one that I shall not be able to forget.
Fordhook, Ealing
September 1834
I do not show it (I have learned that there is little point in doing so), but in the days that follow our return to Fordhook, I am angrier with my mother than I have ever been in my life. Even my resentment of the Fury Days can’t quite compare to the thought that, all this time, Mamma has known that I could never publish a book, even if I wanted to, because she has undertaken to prevent such a thing from happening...
When I am twenty-one, perhaps, whatever preventative method she has tried to ensure might cease. Yes: surely this could be true. And there are other publishers besides Mr Murray, I know. But I am so wounded by the knowledge of what she has done – writing to Mr Murray with her bald instruction – that I feel flattened, a feather-bed unceremoniously squashed by a stone elephant. She does not think me worthy of publication. Or else she cannot bear the thought of the life I might lead if I were to be a writer – the moral deviance in which I might indulge.
Or else: she is jealous. She cannot contemplate the thought of my doing something that she has not done herself.
Our daily Ealing life resumes – visits to Ealing Grove, the theatre, lectures and so on – and I fall into the pattern of it as best I can. I am outwardly monosyllabic and inwardly verbose, so much feeling stored up in my head that I feel I might burst from it. My dreams are blurred and vicious: spiders’ webs ripped apart by savage winds, books shorn of their pages, rainbows drained of their colour. I don’t believe that Mamma notices that I am unhappy, for all that I am very subdued. I bide my time. All the patience I acquired over the summer is finding its purpose.
I am sitting in the library when I hear the clop of hooves that betokens Mamma’s departure. I have been reading – rereading, actually – Mary Somerville’s book, On the Connexion of the Physical Sciences. I almost want to stay here and continue, for I am convinced that if I were able to digest the book in its entirety (it is very long) I might become a little bit more like Mary Somerville in the process. But I am equally minded to do what I want to do now, while Mamma is gone, and so I set the book down, promising to come back to it shortly.
Puff comes stalking up to the table in her funny, rickety, old-cat gait. (The Gosfords have lent her back to us, something that has pleased me more than I thought it would.) Puff and I greet each other with fondness. ‘Now, Puff,’ I say – and feel, for a while, like a much younger version of myself as I do so. ‘I must confide in you. Where do you suppose Mamma would hide a prayer-book – a gift that was sent to me by my Aunt Augusta, but that she never allowed me to have?’
Puff yawns, exposing a row of still-sharp teeth, although she has lost a few over the years.
Stroking her under her chin, I say, ‘Of course, she might have sent it back – but then if she did, Augusta never received it, and so I doubt that possibility. She might have thrown it away... but no. Mamma would never throw away a prayer-book. It stands to reason, therefore, that she must have kept it.’
I pick up my ancient cat and carry her upstairs, taking care not to be spotted by any of the servants and feeling grateful that the Furies are no longer a part of our household. Mamma is, conveniently, out at Ealing Grove, where there has recently been a new intake of pupils. Her bedchamber is not far from mine, but I haven’t actually gone into it much, and I enter now half-hesitant and half-bold – an explorer of some jagged ice-strewn land, desirous of finding out new things, but perhaps a little unsure of the terrain. Set down on the threshold, Puff winds herself between my ankles, pleased to be adventuring with me.
Mamma’s room is vast, yet stuffed with furniture. There are beechwood chairs, dressed in yellow silk, in a row against one wall. There’s a pretty ebony dressing table, stocked with glass bottles and silver brushes. An enormous bed: preposterously so – I can just imagine Mamma stranded in the centre of it, like a gnat in a lake of milk.
There are plenty of books on the writing-desk but I do not think that the book I am searching for will be anywhere but deeply concealed. I open drawers and doors, lifting things out, sifting through piles, always careful not to make a mess or break anything. The carved inkstand on the desk reminds me of the last time I did something forbidden, and how a puddle of ink (indelible blue-black) gave me away. I do not touch the inkstand. I prostrate myself on my stomach and peer under the bed, finding nothing but a single satin slipper that may possibly have been left by the previous inhabitant of Fordhook. There is a heavy rosewood box tucked away at the back of the cupboard – locked – and this draws my attention for some time. I shake it tentatively, trying to work out what is inside. It might be jewellery, but I don’t hear a rattle; just the faintest shuffle of paper, like ocean-whispers. After some time, I put the box back where I found it. I do not think that it contains a prayer-book.
I am on the point of giving up when something extraordinary happens – if I still wrote stories (here I think fondly of dear Miss Stamp), I might write such a scene, rather than believe it could possibly actually happen. I am sitting on the floor in front of Mamma’s wardrobe, looking among the shoes in their boxes, when sudden movement startles me: a flash of something dark and shadowy streaks like a comet from underneath the wardrobe in the direction of the bed. Puff is roused at once from her old-cat reverie, instantly a tigress, and before I’m even quite aware of what is happening, she has trapped the mouse between her paws and is toying with it rather unpleasantly.
‘Oh, Puff – don’t—’ I say, then stop mid-sentence.
The cat-mouse scuffle has revealed something hithertofore unnoticed: a corner of the carpet has been flipped back, and there is a broken floorboard underneath. One that I have never seen before. Slowly, carefully, I press the flat of my hand against the broken board. Nothing. Then, working at the splintered edge with my fingertips, I try to lever it upwards. It is tricky to do. I change the angle, the weight of my hand, and suddenly the broken board shifts, rises, and I am able to pull it away and set it to one side. A good deal of dust has spilled out over the floor, but no matter; a shallow space has been revealed, and there – just as though this were truly a story in a book – is the object I have been wanting to find.
The prayer-book is beautifully bound and engraved with my name, in the most elaborate writing I ever saw. There is a note too, hidden in the folds of packing-paper. It reads: ‘To the Hon. Miss Byron, with every kind and affectionate wish, from her loving Aunt Augusta. December 1830.’ In pencil, but still very neatly written, she has added: ‘With Lady Byron’s permission.’
The discovery chills me: so my aunt was not lying. She did send the book, just as she says she did. Of course, she might still be a liar; about this incident, however, she was telling the truth.
‘Well!’ I say aloud to Puff, who is still pawing at the mouse (presumably now dead) in a lazy, disinterested way. ‘And what do you make of this? Why was I never given this book?’
Puff doesn’t respond.
If Aunt Augusta told the truth about th
e prayer-book, could it be that Mamma was lying when she said that Aunt Augusta was a liar? I have always regarded my mother as a scrupulously honest person – sometimes to her own detriment, for tact is not one of her qualities. But it is possible that she might be, if not a liar, then certainly someone who is making sure that the truth is as carefully hidden as this little wrapped-up prayer-book...
Yes. I can certainly believe that. How many times have I asked her questions, over the years, to which she has provided no answer?
I make a point of reading the book – not cover to cover, but thoroughly enough – before, with regret, I re-wrap it and stow it in its hiding place. I leave Mamma’s room covertly, again careful not to be seen, and go back to my own room, where I sit and think for so long that I start to genuinely believe that I might have altered the shape of my skull from puzzlement, and that Dr Combe – were he to do a third reading of my head – would exclaim aloud in wonder at the physical transformation.
Wimpole Street, London
September 1834
Autumn comes, and those first chill winds bring with them a downturn in my mother’s health. Or so she claims. Wanting more regular access to her doctors, Mamma decides to move the household temporarily from Ealing to Wimpole Street, right in the heart of London. Knowing that Mamma is concerned about my health – which she seems to view as an extension of her own, for the most part, unable to imagine me to be well when she herself is feeling unwell – I have gone to some lengths to persuade her that I am perfectly well. But this isn’t true, and I don’t know if I am really able to pretend anything to the contrary.
The prayer-book preys on my thoughts: I am sure that Mamma has lied to me about many things concerning my father, and she has deprived me of getting to know his relations. She has shrouded the whole of their marriage in such a cloud of secrecy that I can only believe that she behaved very badly indeed towards him. Sometimes, I decide that she hated him, and that, perhaps, by extension, she hates me...